Death on the Double

The only uninvited guest was - murder! The host and the principal guests at the wildest, wickedest masquerade ball of the society season were: A playboy millionaire with more women than is good for the health of one man. A golden-limbed vixen who came masquerading as “Eve” - and wearing as little. A costumed killer with a murder in mind. And Peter Chambers, private eye.

Martinis and Murder

A leggy torch singer of bawdy ballads with an eye-opening dance routine to match...A lady jewelry designer with an exclusive - deadly - clientele.... A sweet young bride with a drawerful of illicit letters that her husband never wrote... And murder - three lush man-traps mixed up in the murder of a fourth - all set to explode as Peter Chambers, fiction’s most hard-boiled private-eye, dodges bullets on a murder trail from the plush retreats of high society to after-hours Greenwich Village!

Armchair in Hell

When a lush brunette turns up unexpectedly dead in a stranger’s bed, and an antique dealer (who is “mostly legit”) settles down in an easy chair with a dagger in his back, and a big-time gambler drops all bets on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood - then Peter Chambers, fiction’s most eye-catching, hard-boiled private eye, finds himself staked out as victim number four in a high-priced game of death and international intrigue.

Hang by Your Neck

>Peter Chambers is a private richard who has a real affinity for trouble. He hasn't any notion at all who polished off the nasty blonde with the round hole between her eyes - or the little man swinging by the neck from a bedroom window. Peter has strong incentives for finding out the answers - partly because the only thing he can do is break the case wide open before the going gets too rough. But mainly because his fee is Miami Moonbeam, six feet of ravishing, red-haired woman.

Fistful of Death

The proposition sounded like a pushover. All Peter Chambers had to do was find out where a teen-aged chorine had been for the past month and why. And for that information, the girl’s father - a prosperous banker - would pay Chambers a cool thousand dollars. It was a quick way to earn some easy money. Or so Chambers thought . . . until he found out that the fistful of cash carried a little something extra along with it - A Fistful of Death.

Death Is the Last Lover

Are you a ladykiller?'' the vision asked. She had skin like cream, hair like jet, and a body that could turn any male into an instant sex-maniac. With a wicked little smile, she moved closer to Peter Chambers. ''I devour ladykillers,'' she murmured. A hot bout of serious slaughter and insincere sex in which Manhattan’s sleuth-about-town Peter Chambers investigates the early death of a dancehall hostess who would do anything for love . . . and much much more for money.

Death of a Flack

Lady on the Make:She was a gorgeous Greek with a classic chassis. When she smoldered her way into a hot tumble with Peter Chambers, the fast-living private eye didn’t know whether he was in heaven, or tangling with a torrid she-devil.

Dead in Bed

Take a beautiful woman - no, take two or even three beautiful women, take some money, throw in a con man and a hustler or two, even a rich and respected publisher and a bank v.p. won’t hurt. Add people’s natural avariciousness, a couple of gruesome murders and sex-crimes, and mix well with Peter Chambers.The result: one of the most intriguing, fast-moving, exciting suspense thrillers of the year - all in the inimitable Henry Kane manner.This is one you won’t ever forget.

Death of a Hooker

Beverly Crystal had a million-dollar idea and a circle of "friends" who would never force her to hunt around for enemies. The happy crew included: Danny the Dance, who waltzed his way through life like a man sliding down a banister made of razor-blades; Mickey Bokino, who let money flow through his fingers like the acid he kept ready for people who couldn't - or wouldn’t - pay him back; Vinnie Veneto, who owned everything and everybody and had his fingers in more pies than a drunken pastry chef on the morning after; and Peter Chambers, a private eye with a buck to make and more than a couple of murders to solve....

Death of a Dastard

Jason Touraine was irresistible to dissatisfied wives, lonely women, and roving females on the make. He had innocent eyes, an athlete’s body...and a tape recorder fashioned to look like a busy man’s attach case. This he always placed under the bed. And when the amorous antics were over, he ran a play-back for his love. After the play-back...came the pay-off. It was a great life. But it ended suddenly one night when a bullet from a lady’s gun smashed right through Jason’s head!

Don't Call Me Madame

The game of murder: It’s not a pretty game. The players are weird. They don’t fit in with normal people, sensible people - people who don’t get a kick out of shoving in the knife, ripping through the flesh, seeing the bright red spurt.... Peter Chambers knows the game of murder. He’s not a player - more of a referee. He sees them all: the murder for profit; the murder for fun. Sometimes he’s on the receiving end. And when sex gets mixed with murder, it’s almost enough to make a guy give up sex - for a day or two.